


Okay, Karma-Person

by wearethewitches



Series: is Sokka really that important? yep. [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Cultural genocide, Drowning, Gen, Moon Spirit Sokka (Avatar), POV Sokka (Avatar), Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26739508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearethewitches/pseuds/wearethewitches
Summary: Sokka goes exploring and things...don't go as well as they could have.or, wherein Sokka is saved by Tui and La.
Series: is Sokka really that important? yep. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946290
Comments: 5
Kudos: 132





	Okay, Karma-Person

Sokka knows there is more than one Water Tribe.

He doesn’t mean that there’s both Northern and Southern Water Tribes—no, he means that in the South Pole, there used to be over _thirty._ There was the Tiger Seal Tribe, the Polar Dog Tribe, the Pale Coast Nomads, the Ice Sailors, the Fish-Fox Hunter Tribe and many, many more, all wiped out by the Fire Nation over the last hundred years.

Sokka’s tribe—the Grey Wolf Tribe—is the only one left, full of refugees who brought their cultures with them when they fled. Sokka knows that the way he learned to tie nets comes from the Moon Fishers and the stitches holding his boots together comes from the Cat-Hawk Tribe. What Sokka knows as _Water Tribe_ is a conglomerate of broken cultures, banding together in their last days to fight back against their oppressors—and they all try to keep at least one single thing to remind them of where they came from, though many hundreds of tribal traditions have still been lost in flames.

That quiet curiosity he has when he thinks of all those lost tribes is what guides him on this solo expedition through a long-buried cavern, when he should be fishing in sight of the walls surrounding camp. Down here, deep in the heart of a glacier, the walls are smooth and shaped in and unnatural way, with perfect corners and carven designs on the pillars holding the ceiling aloft—all the products of long-dead waterbenders, who once roamed this space and called it _home._

‘I wonder if this was a room or a corridor,’ Sokka thinks aloud, tapping the ground ahead with the butt of a long, headless spear. He listens to every tap, waiting for any sort of hollow thud that might indicate space below—he’s not going to go anywhere near a piece of floor that might drop him into the sea. That would be a death sentence.

Ahead, there’s been a definite cave-in, but Sokka isn’t sure whether it’s because an entrance collapsed or because someone tried to bury an invader. Sokka shivers at the idea of finding bodies, then continues onwards. For all he knows, there’s already a search party out, looking for him.

Traversing the corridors warren-like abode, Sokka finds himself tucking his body through a crack in the ice into a dimly-lit room. Having been trusting a torch—a torch he’s being forced to leave out in the corridor—Sokka presses through into the room, seeking the source of illumination. How could there be light? He’s at least a half-mile down…

On entering the room, Sokka discovers that the ceiling is non-existent, except for a thick sheet of ice that is so clear, he can see the stars—which is amazing, because for the past month, a storm cloud has been hovering over the whole expanse of the South Pole, blackening their already winter-dark world to naught but firelight. This is the first time he’s seen the moon since Dad left.

‘You’re beautiful,’ Sokka says to Tui, the spirit of the moon. The pale beams streaming through the ice are so strong that he almost feels burned by them. Tui silently greets him.

 _Maybe the waterbenders who lived here never saw the sky,_ the boy guesses blindly, _and they built this room to see it. A temple. A sanctuary._

When Sokka looks around the room, thoughtlessly stepping into the centre of the space to get a better view, he discovers stories on the walls—sculptures of dancing tribespeople. Sokka gasps, exclaiming _‘Waterbending forms!’_ in a loud voice that echoes off the walls. He thinks of little Katara, only six years old, a baby who can bring down whole igloos with one scream.

Beneath his feet, he finds an engraving in the ice and as he kneels down, wiping gently so as to see, Sokka discovers Tui and La, in koi-form, swimming in endless circles. And between them lies a _crack._

Eyes widening, Sokka instinctually spreads his weight, lying face down on the floor. ‘Stupid!’ He mutters to himself, terrified. This close, he can hear the minute snaps of the ice giving way and he knows that the stiller he stays, the less danger there is. The moment he moves, it will be a race against time to slide onto a thicker section of ice—only, Sokka has no idea where to go. For all he knows, this whole floor has been bended into existence, perfectly level on either side.

_No, scratch that. This whole place was made by waterbenders—it **is** perfect._

Sokka cries, willing his body not to convulse as he sobs, but the snaps only get louder, the spiderweb of cracks spreading out all around him, breaking the koi-fish engravings. Sokka prays to the spirits to save him—for La to be kind when he falls into the sea, for Tui to guide him to the surface when he won’t know up and down. Drowning is inevitable.

‘I don’t want to die,’ he begs, forehead resting against the crack in the ice. ‘Please.’

There is one last _snap_ —and then, with one last scream, Sokka is consumed by the ocean.

-

Drowning is not peaceful.

Ice water fills his lungs and freezes his insides, tiger-seal coat becoming filled with water as it pours past the edges and saturates the fur lining. Sokka can’t see anything, unable to even understand where the moonlight is coming from. Blood is rushing to his brain and he is _choking._

Drowning is not peaceful.

-

 _You still have a part to play,_ says La, a formless black spectre that reaches and raises Sokka’s chin to the sky—so that his eyes might the face of Tui, who is unblinking as they reach down, down, down into the depths. Sokka feels their cool touch—cold, yet still warmer than the ocean that consumes him—and _life_ flows through him, the energy of the universe sinking into his skin as he rises, floating to the open crack in the sanctuary floor.

 _You are ours. Son of the Moon and Sea,_ Tui tells him. _All who look upon you shall see our touch and all spirits, the burden you carry for us._

Sokka wants to ask them what they mean, how people will see him and what burden he will carry, now—but the spectre fades beneath him and the unblinking eyes of Tui upon their discus vanish, Sokka bursting through the surface of the water and feeling the overwhelming urge to cough. He splashes, turning upright and hacks out the saltwater filling his lungs, before he smashes at the nearby ice, reaching for solid ground near the crack, where the light of his torch yet flickers. He tries not to think of how the sea feels warm—how his waterlogged clothes are only uncomfortable instead of a death sentence—but then pale hair flops over his eyes, catching on his nose.

‘What?!’ Sokka exclaims, reaching up in fear to grasp the long strands of his undone wolf-tail. It splays out across his gloves, unforgivably pale and glowing softly under the moonlight—there’s no way he can hide the change, not unless he wants to dump his head in a bucket of giant crab-squid ink. He treads water for a moment, feeling the burn in his legs and gulps before pushing it aside. He has to get out of the water. He has to go home, to Gran-Gran and Katara and the village.

Sokka despairs. _I never should have gone exploring!_ He finds a stable platform of ice, hauling himself up and then dives for the crack, not wanting to be in the sanctuary a moment longer. He sheds his outer layers, water trickling over the ice as he strips down to his under-things, struggling not to cry as he doesn’t feel the cold or the beginnings of a slow death. He isn’t suffering from hypothermia—that’s clear to him—and that unfamiliar hair is still flopping over his eyes.

In the depths of the glacier, unsure of what he even _is_ anymore, Sokka lets himself fall, drained off all energy. His face presses up against the icy floor—the flesh of his cheekbone cut open on a particularly sharp crag—and Sokka shakes, soaking up the sensations of the frozen world around him as if he were instead in a more temperate climate.

_Ha! Temperate. I don’t even know what that is!_

All of Sokka’s life, he’s been told not to do things on his own. Even if it meant bringing Katara, he was never meant to go out into the tundra alone. Anything could happen—and then he’d never be found again. If he died, the snows would cover his body and he might only be discovered decades later, when the ice finally melted. How could he have been so stupid? So reckless?

And now, he’s paid the price for it.

Sokka continues to lie there inside the glacier, staring at the stray lock of snow-coloured hair fallen into his line of vision. Tui and La saved him—that was their voices he heard. They had to be. Sokka fell into the ocean and when he was on the cup of drowning, the spirits saved his life. He still has a part to play. Him. Sokka. Son and heir of Hakoda the Grey Wolf, Chief of the Southern Water Tribes. Son of the Moon and Sea.

Sokka reaches up to grasp that pale lock, taking it for what it is—a sign that he still has things to do in this world. Important things that not even the spirits thinks the world would survive without him.

‘First step,’ he says to himself, finally sitting up in preparation to move on, ‘Get home and tell Gran-Gran about my new hairdo. Then, deal with the rest of the tribe and stop Katara from absolutely murdering me for nearly dying! Yup—that sounds like a plan!’

So, Sokka gets his stuff together, pulling on the bare minimum of his sodden clothes and retrieving his headless spear from where it floats in the sanctuary, offering a short, grateful prayer to Tui and La as he collects it, thanking them for his life and promising to do the best he can with their gift. Then, he pulls himself together—shaking off his last minute nerves about exiting the glacier without wearing his coat—and leaves, stepping outside into the winter-dark of the South Pole.

It’s time to go home.


End file.
